Antonio Carlotti was not in the best of tempers. His boss, Gregori Mandino, was consumed by this ridiculous quest to track down the English couple and the relics they’d managed to find up in the hills near Piglio, but the bulk of the work involved seemed to have fallen on Carlotti’s shoulders.
He was the man who’d had to supervise the Internet monitoring and related searches. He was the person whom Mandino had told to run down all the biographical details of Christopher Bronson and Angela Lewis, and who’d had to deduce where they were likely to go next. Mandino just demanded results and then made his own plans accordingly, usually with Rogan in tow.
To call Mandino’s pursuit “single-minded” was to understate the case. He seemed to be letting all his other responsibilities slide and, as the Rome family capo, he had plenty of other things he should be doing. The quest appeared to be almost personal to him, and the one thing Carlotti had learned since he’d become a member of the Cosa Nostra was that you never let things get personal.
The bodyguard who’d been wounded at the property near Ponticelli was a good example. The Englishman, Bronson, had called an ambulance and then driven away from the house, and the man had been taken to a surgical hospital in Rome. But for Carlotti, a bodyguard who got himself shot was no use. He knew the man. He even liked him, but he’d failed in his duty, and that was enough. The two men Carlotti had sent to the hospital had distracted the police guard and then killed the wounded man, messily but quickly, before he could be properly interviewed by the Carabinieri. That was what Carlotti meant by not getting personal.
He was wondering what, if anything, he should say to Mandino next time they met when his cell phone rang.
“Carlotti.”
“You don’t know me,” the voice said, “but we have a mutual acquaintance.”
“Yes.” The Italian was somewhat cautious.
“This concerns the Codex.”
“Yes?” Carlotti said again, now on surer ground. “How can I help? My colleague has already left for Barcelona.”
“I know. He gave me your number before he went. We need to meet. It’s very important—for both of us.”
“Very well. Where and when?”
“The cafe’ in the Piazza Cavour, in thirty minutes?”
“I’ll be there,” Carlotti said, and ended the call.
“So, how can I help you, Eminence?” Antonio Carlotti asked, as Vertutti sat down heavily in the seat opposite him.
“I think it’s more how I can help you,” Vertutti said. He leaned forward and clasped his hands under his chin. “Do you believe in God, Carlotti?”
Whatever Carlotti had expected, this wasn’t it. “Of course. Why do you ask?”
Vertutti continued, ignoring the question. “And do you believe that the Holy Father is God’s chosen representative on earth? And that Jesus Christ died for our sins?”
“Actually, that’s three questions, Cardinal. But the answer’s the same to all of them—yes, I do.”
“Good,” Vertutti said, “because that’s the crux of the problem I face. Gregori Mandino would have answered ‘no.’ He’s not simply godless: he’s a committed atheist and a rabid opponent of the Vatican, the Catholic Church and everything they stand for.”
Carlotti shook his head. “I’ve known Gregori for many years, Eminence. His personal beliefs will not prevent him from completing this task.”
“I wish I shared your confidence. How much do you know about the quest he’s undertaken?”
“In detail, very little,” Carlotti replied, cautiously. “I’ve mainly been involved in providing technical support.”
“But you are his second-in-command?”
“Yes. That’s why you have my number.”
Vertutti nodded. “Let me explain exactly what we have become involved in. This is a quest,” he began, “that commenced in the seventh century under Pope Vitalian. A quest that could affect the very future of the Mother Church herself.”
“And this Exomologesis is what, exactly?” Carlotti asked, having listened to Vertutti’s explanation of the Vitalian Codex.
“It’s a forgery,” Vertutti explained, embarking on the wholly fictitious story he’d worked out the previous evening, “but a very convincing one. It’s a document that purports to prove that Jesus Christ did not die on the Cross. Now,” he added with a smile, “the faith of true Christians is strong enough to dismiss such a fabrication, and the Vatican can demonstrate the fallacy of the document itself, but the very existence of this scroll is enough to raise doubts about our religion. With people increasingly turning away from the Church, we simply cannot afford to have any such doubts expressed.”
Carlotti looked puzzled. “But I thought Gregori had recovered the Exomologesis. I understood that was what had been concealed in the house outside Ponticelli.”
“Mandino removed it from the property, but we found additional text at the foot of the scroll. It said a further copy of the document had been prepared, together with two diptychs which would provide proof of the validity of the scroll. Now, we know that these diptychs, like the scroll itself, must be forgeries, but we simply cannot afford for the contents of these documents to be made public. These three additional relics have been stolen by the Englishman Bronson and his ex-wife.”
Carlotti still looked confused. “I know about Bronson, and I understand what you’re saying, but Gregori will hopefully recover these objects when he reaches Barcelona.”
Acting on Mandino’s instructions, Carlotti had run exhaustive checks on the backgrounds of both Bronson and the Lewis woman. The only possible contact either of them had with academics based in Europe was Angela Lewis’s previous work with Josep Puente, which was why Carlotti had ordered two of his men to watch the Museu Egipti in Barcelona, with detailed descriptions of what Bronson and Lewis looked like, and why Mandino was already on his way to Spain.
“That,” Vertutti said, leaning forward earnestly to make his point, “is what worries me. Unfortunately, Mandino and I have never seen eye to eye over this matter, and he’s told me that, once he’s recovered these relics, he intends to make them public. With his religious—or rather anti-religious—views, that didn’t surprise me, and he seems unconcerned that his action will do irreparable harm to the Church.”
“So what can I do?” Carlotti asked.
Vertutti leaned even farther forward, lowered his voice and made the suggestion he’d been working on for the last three days.
Ten minutes later, Vertutti shook hands with Carlotti and headed back toward the Vatican. As he walked, he noticed he was sweating slightly, and it was not entirely due to the gentle heat of the Rome evening.
V
For a short while after Vertutti had left, Antonio Carlotti sat lost in thought. It had been, he reflected, a most unusual conversation. He’d noticed the slight traces of perspiration on Vertutti’s forehead as the senior churchman worked his way through the lies he was telling. Carlotti’s statement about only providing technical support was, of course, completely untrue: he knew just as much about the Exomologesis as Mandino did. But he’d guessed that he’d stand a much better chance of learning exactly what Vertutti was up to if he played dumb, and his decision had been amply vindicated.
Now all he had to do was decide whether to simply pass on what he’d learned to Mandino—which was the obvious and logical thing to do—and leave him to deal with Vertutti on his return to Rome, or do something else. Something that would, strangely enough, achieve exactly what Vertutti wanted, but at the same time benefit Carlotti himself. It was a big step to take, and before he acted he needed to be certain he could pull it off.
Finally, he pulled out his cell phone and made a long call to one of his most trusted men, a call that included the most specific—and highly unusual—instructions.
26
I